


Ride: Chapter Eleven

by OldLace, pinto_round_robin



Series: Ride [11]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4166313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldLace/pseuds/OldLace, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinto_round_robin/pseuds/pinto_round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bedelia?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Beyonce? What, she's fearless. It can be a metaphor."</p><p>"Everything can be a metaphor if you try hard enough."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ride: Chapter Eleven

"Yeah, but have you realized we haven't named the car yet?" 

This earns Zach a pause while Chris hauls his assorted Route 66 memorabilia in the back seat. There is an upward twitch in Chris's lips, but he can't really be sure: his eyes, which crinkles in Chris' most obvious tell of amusement, are hiding behind his Ray Bans and his mouth is sporting an ominous beginning of The Beard. Also, Zach isn't sure it's Chris. This putative pod person has been testy and twitchy in all the wrong moments since they left the motel. Zach takes a hurried sip of his syrupy shake and lets it wash the guilt bubbling his throat.

"Should I be afraid? Why the sudden interest in naming my baby?" 

"I'll have you know I already have vested interested in this hunk of metal. My backside is practically imprinted in your passenger seat," Zach says, just to be on the side of argumentative. It never fails to be sure one is not traversing the road with a changeling.

"That argument is so wrong I won't even..." Chris trails off and revs the engine to life to prove his point. Chris leisurely maneuvers the car out of the Snow Cap Drive-thru onto the highway. "Imprint your ass all you want," he scrunches his nose in distaste, "but if you can't drive her, you can't name her." Absorbing the kitschy vintage vibe of the shops aligning the Seligman streets left them in a comfortable silence for about a minute.

"Who said I can't drive it?" 

This unequivocally earns him an eye roll, shades or no. "Bullshit."

"No, seriously. I said," Zach says coolly, "I said  _Oh,_  and made this face." He swats Chris' chest so he'll see Zach snap his expression into a quietly disappointed face that would make his professors at CMU proud, easy peasy. "And then you told me you'd teach me, and I said I'd make an excellent student, which I totally was, by the way, when Joe taught me using our old car. Which, if you may know, is a stick." 

Chris groans, and then he laughs an honest to goodness laugh, the one he doesn't use when trying to charm the pants off someone who's writing about him in a magazine cover. Zach feels relief, his guilt easing a little. Paydirt. "You fucking played me, Zach," he says, impressed.

"There's a lot you haven't learn yet, young Jedi."

A moment passes, and then two.

"So?" Zach sighs exasperatedly.

"So," Chris asks, "why now, why the subterfuge?" 

"Maybe I wasn't ready to drive then," Zach sees a bushy eyebrow creep up in the driver's seat,  "and driving stick brings back all these memories of my gangly self being screamed at by Joe because my awkward limbs wouldn't coordinate properly with my brain, okay."

"You're not really building your case here."

"Look, it's hard work for me, but I can do it," Zach says. "I'm ready to drive now, I swear."

Chris finally glances at him, like he's figuring him out, and Zach absolutely hates that he can't see Chris' eyes right now. Chris grabs the chili dog he's placed conveniently near the acrimonious stick shift, and bites. And if he chomps and chews a bit more emphatically than usual, Zach chooses to ignore it. He watches Chris' tongue catch the runaway sauce smeared on his lips, before speaking.

"Maybe you need to earn it," he says. Zach gulps and looks away.

 

***

 

It's a waltz, what they're doing.

"I'm just saying, cars are like people. Sure, there are different makes and models, that's pretty obvious, but what you have to be really mindful about are the minutiae, which tell the story and accounts for all the differences." Chris shifts in his seat but he remains transfixed on the road, gaze unwavering, his one hand that had previously been wildly gesticulating settling back to the wheel. Zach notices this, because he knows this is how Chris is when you get him to concentrate, to explain an esoteric concept, to spew abstractions. 

"So, what, the story of this car is that it smells like Canada before it conks out on you? Or that it's a greedy little diesel bitch?" Or maybe not a waltz, but a boxing match, he thinks, a one-two punch combination, a sport, but that's barely any different. The thing is, they've been treading on a thin wire, since forever, if he's to admit it, and the proximity does wonders to his reflections.

"Dude, if I can make it run on corn and potatoes, I would do that, in, like, a pinch."  _Dude._  Chris tilts his head back and chugs water from his jug, and again, with the Adam's apple action? They should make it one of their all-too many official road trip rules -  Rule Number Fifty Seven: No Homoerotic Food Ingestion, and oh god, when did keeping a friendship ever get this hard? 

They'd come unwittingly close over the past years, or so Zach thought, but Chris never crossed that line, and Chris was the one who vehemently denied the two of them being together just yesterday and who couldn't get away faster from him this morning.  And if his unconscious mind drastically shifted to the last person who made him feel warm inside, Zach isn't to blame. 

Because the second lesson he learned in his arduous journey towards self-acceptance and discovery, right below the realization that he owes nil to anybody for who he is, is that being wanted in return shouldn't have to be too hard, because unrequited feelings are shit and no one should feel that agony once, lest twice. Zach is salvaging whatever he can from this friendship, even though everything that Chris does does funny stuff to Zach's body temperature, and Zach is altruistic, not blind.

"And why are we even debating this point? No, it's a classic American beauty, I thought we've already established that."

"No, I admitted that it was, indeed, sexy, but sexy has variable definitions, and if you've noticed, I'm gay," Zach chortles. "You mean, it doesn't look like American muscle to you? Because I can totally see it, I mean. All red blooded stamina in that polished chrome..."

 

***

 

Chris professes his love for Clint Eastwood, so they stop by at the Pine Breeze Inn. The minute they stop, he gets out of the car snapping away his camera like a child. Zach snaps about three photos with his phone in about two seconds.

"So I found this website..."

"Zachary, I told you, no unnecessary use of phones," Chris says, dropping down on his knees to get a better angle at the No Vacancy sign.  _Jesus._

"Dude," Zach thinks,  _hah_ , "shut up. I'm exercising my pre-emptive nomenclature rights. So I found this site which says... your car's name is Beverly. Or Raymond."

"What?" Chris squints at him. "Fuck no. How did you get that exactly?"

"Well, it says here to look up the year the car was made, pull out the most popular baby names during that year in the Office for National Statistics website, look up at what age you got your car, and ta-da. Beverly. Or Raymond. Gender is relative anyway," Zach babbles. Chris is a sight to behold in the sunlight, with his jean-clad knees splayed open in the dirt, his ass perched precariously on his ankles. In the sunlight, his eyes are less surreal, more trusting, more reachable. This, right here, is the crux of the problem. 

Chris just snorts before returning his attention to his camera lens. "Believe me, we are not naming my car Beverly."

"Do I really want to hear this," Zach says wryly, silently channeling the Serenity Prayer. Thanks, Spock. "Please, proceed."

 

***

 

"If it makes you feel any better," Zach closes his eyes, feeling thrum of the engines beneath them and the whoosh of the wind in his face, "I tried sex in a car once. It was like trying to do yoga in a drainage pipe with your arms and legs tied while using a typewriter with your penis."

"As you may know, there was more than one penis involved."

"Of course."

"And that was before I learned yoga."

 

***

 

"Bedelia?"

"No."

"Beyonce? What, she's fearless. It can be a metaphor."

"Everything can be a metaphor if you try hard enough. Don't think I haven't noticed you're sticking to letter Bs"

"It's a Bel-Air. A little alliteration never hurt the soul."

Chris hums, and when Zach peeks, he's smiling. _Progress._

"Birkita? It's Celtic for strength."

"No."

"Beladonna?"

"No."

 

***

 

"And,  _and_ , get this,"

"Oh my god," Chris wheezes, almost doubling in laughter, "stop."

"Hey, eyes on the road, buddy," Zach says, slapping Chris's leg. "He gets off at his stop, yeah? He pulls out his hands from his coat, and he's shot his load all over it by then, flattens them on the windows, and smears his spunk into a heart-shape. Transportation Sex Horrors Trifecta, there you go."

"Oh my god," Chris couldn’t stop laughing, and Zach feels smugly satisfied.

 

***

 

Trust Zachary Quinto to be picked up in a local watering hole in the goddamn desert, without having showered for the past 24 hours and with only half of his eyebrows on. Chris wants to pace around like a headless chicken, either that or make a beeline to where the tall, blonde guy in a leather jacket and tight jeans cornered Zach after he came out of the bathroom. But having downed more than he's worth, he doesn't trust himself to stay buckled on his knees, or to say the right words.

He catches Zach's eye, and for a moment, he cannot breathe. He has a distinct urge to beg, to just drag Zach away. He grits his teeth and flicks his eyes away, pretending to scan the interior of the bar. Except, he's too buzzed to care, and ambiance is overrated anyway. He glances back at Zach, who's nodding back into whatever the guy was saying. By god, the guy was a talker.

It had almost an entirely wonderful day, 'almost' being the operative word. He's never going to stop being amazed at how Zach fits in the peace and quiet, the lull of the ride, as well as the noisy, bickering times; it's more than Chris could have hoped for after this morning, really. He can't seem to catch a break, but at least Zach seems to be on the upswing. 

He wonders at the logistics if Zach were to bring this guy home to their motel. He should be the better guy and talk to the receptionist, actually, respecting the boundaries of friendship, and all that jazz. He takes another swig of whatever bitter swill he was holding. The air conditioning that had felt so wonderful when they'd first entered the bar feels too overbearing now. 

Will Zach make the same jokes he's made with Chris with this guy? It'd be sad if Zach will bypass Chris altogether and move on to this guy, who, Chris thinks, doesn't even have a nice ass. Chris will be sad, not that he's thinking about being in a relationship with Zach. Friendship, boundaries, respect. Right. Zach is the jolliest goodest fellow Chris had ever met, and Zach will have no problem easing into another relationship, because everybody cannot help but loves Zach. It's his superpower. Chris is bitter at Miles in more ways than one, because  _Zach_ , obviously, and because he'd never really had that disgustingly stable and connected relationship with anyone, and he'd only ever imagined it with Zach.

He'd had his own nadir of inaction to blame, from the moment he realized he could affect Zach, that he'd had that power. He'd felt invincible, and did nothing. Chris had places to go and people to see, and he wasn't really sure he wanted to go there yet, and there was still the third Trek. He couldn't have done anything, or so he said to himself, without losing all that he'd worked for from scratch. 

And when Zach met Miles, he'd been a good sport, chalked it all up as a cost of his procrastination and moved on. Until he first saw the pap photos of them holding hands and how happy he was, how content. Then he had to contend with the choking feeling that would well up his throat every time his phone pinged with a new one of them wrapped around tighter than a burrito from Tijuana doing some fancy hipster shite. Now, every single time Zach held Chris' hands, he'd always felt maudlin after. Like he was maudlin now. 

Chris is startled by wide eyes staring at him, Zach, leaning over the table and squeezing his shoulder in concern.

"Are you alright, Chris?" He bobs his head, but it must have underestimated its weight because he's having difficulty nodding it back upright. Chris feels insistent arms wrap around his waist, and he leans at the touch.

"Come on, let's get you to bed."

  

***

 

Back in their room, they stumble into darkness.

"Zach," Chris whispers, "I said it. I said the thing," and Zach just throws him a look far too judgmental to be sober, but then Zach's skills have always been reliable like that, stable. Like finding an available motel in the middle of a tourist town in Arizona while being drenched in Southern downpour near-midnight. I took a leap of faith, Zach had said. "It's named Whispering Wind, and one of its Google reviews said it was 'discusting.' I figured they needed a customer." Who even does that? Chris likes Zach for the most mundane of reasons, sometimes.

He's got part of his mental faculties back, being drenched in heavy downpour turns out to have that effect, and he made sure to take his time in the shower. Now he's tired and well awake, he can practically hear his own dendrites whirring. He flops onto his bed - they have double beds, this time -  face first. He later hears Zach coming out of the shower, the tell-tale switching of the harsh lights off.

He flips to his back. Outside, the rain starts to beat heavily down on the hallway, reaching their windows. The lights outside flicker. He issues a low whistle. He thinks he can see Zach, half-naked on his bed, on his back, his right hand tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. They're mere meters apart and non-existent miles between them.  _See_ , Chris tells himself,  _maudlin and poetic._

"Beulah," Zach rumbles.

Chris pauses, contemplating what Zach had just said, and groans loudly in response. On most days, he's convinced, Zach enjoys his suffering.

 

***

 

"Hey Chris?" On his periphery, Zach shifts on his side facing him.

"Yeah?"

"Why this one? Just, buying a Chevy doesn't exactly mean low profile."

"Fuck that," he says, feeling provoked into a corner into defending his life choices. "I didn't actually want to think about that when I was buying, you know. I just wanted it to be normal, a normal person buying a normal car for a normal road trip."

"It's not that I didn't think about it. I thought about it, of course. You know me, Zach," Chris adds, after Zach doesn't answer. "I just, I didn't want it to get to me, to  _alter_  me, you know?" He can feel Zach staring, and he feels conscious all of a sudden, of what Zach sees when he looks at him, even in the dark.

"Reminds me of a conversation I had with Lindsay, you remember? I think I told you about that before, but anyway, we went to this party, man, it feels like decades ago. "

"Well," Zach says, "it was."

"Oh yeah," Chris chuckles, and adds, horrified, "oh god, I'm old." He tilts his head to look at Zach, but there's no judgment at all there. In the dim light, there's just his floppy hair, his sharp angles nestled underneath the blankets.  

"So she told me, 'Chris, anyone in my position has asked for the attention.' And looking back on it, man, I wonder if I did, and that was all there was to it, given all the decisions that I made. I know, I'm supposed to work on my spontaneity, whatever, but these things happened because I let it happen, that I didn't control things enough. I haven't," Chris says, softly, like he's letting Zach in on his innermost secrets, "settled a thing because I was too indecisive, tentative, lazy. Take your pick."

"Chris, it's just a car," Zach says. "And you forget that I've known you, and watched you grow..."

"It's been a bad year," Chris admits. "Some days, I'm afraid I'll just fade away, some days, I desperately want to." 

Zach doesn't appear to have an answer, and so Chris closes his eyes. 

"Hey," Zach says, "do you remember that conversation we had during the first Trek's after-after party? You stayed at my place."

Chris smiles in the dark. "We said when we're accomplished old decrepits, we'll settle down in New York."

"And you'll play guitar on the subway. We can do duets with my banjo now," Zach muses.

"Or mime," Chris says

"Or mime," Zach agrees.

"I've had my fair share of doubts, though, in my oodles of free time," and Chris flops to his stomach and lays his head on his arms, facing Zach, too. He keeps his eyes closed because, he thinks, there are conversations too intimate to have your eyes open.

"I wondered if I was too reductive in my choices. I had specific goals, sure, but I inevitably doubted if I set the bar too low. It was one of the things that became an issue. With... with Miles."

"In the end, the age gap didn't really do well," and Chris can hear him smothering his face into his pillow, "especially when I felt the trajectory of my life was dwindling while he was just, you know."

"And I'd ask him, 'how about we drive from here to Alaska?' And he'd say, sure, and I used to be magnetized toward that kind of attitude, you know. I was smitten. Just like that, as if I'd asked ‘why don't we order sushi’." 

"Later, it perplexed and frustrated me, but I figured eventually I was just projecting my bevy of insecurities at him, and then he'd get perplexed and frustrated. He didn't know how to deal with that, well, he couldn't have had." 

"He was a child, Zach," Chris says carefully.

"He was really mature," Zach grumbles.

"At that age, I was dating dudes for their pool privileges, Zach."

"Wait,  _what_? Really?"

"Really. I didn't really have high standards." Chris can feel surprise reverberating from the other side of the room. "I also thought beards were ugly, I mean, look at me now," Chris grins.

"He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man," Zach quotes sagely. 

"And he that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for him," Chris answers. "Oh man, Billy S.. Those were the days. I miss that."  _I missed this._

"And see, we shouldn't, I don't know," Chris interrupts, with a yawn, "deconstruct, and then fill each other in."

The rain has almost receded, and he's almost slipped into sleep, but he keeps trying to remember a book he'd read, or was it an essay? He nonetheless agrees with the wisdom of it, that the fate of people is indeed made like this: with two men in small rooms. Or at the very least, at least his, is irrevocably swayed.

"Hey Chris," Zach says, breaking his reverie. "How about Beatrice?"

Chris mumbles, "I'll pencil it in."

 

 

***

 

The next morning, he fumbles around his jeans pocket a little, and then tosses the keys to Zach. It's portentous, he thinks. He looks up to Zach, who was halfway getting in the passenger seat. His look is of baffled amazement, but he doesn't speak out. Chris keeps his amusement off his face. "You used it last night, anyway, so I guess I'd have to thank Joe we didn't die in the middle of Arizona."

"I wasn't," Zach says, his face smoothing into his cool facade. Chris is okay with that; he knows Zach's tells a lot more than most people, Chris likes to think, and that hint of surprise when he gripped the keys meant _absolute delight_. "I wasn't sure, because you know, when I dreamed of this moment, I've Had The Time Of My Life was playing."

"Nothing behind us, and everything ahead of us, right?" Chris pats him along, "Now get off the damn seat before you imprint your ass further, Christ Almighty."

 

***

"The novelty wears off after a time," Zach grouchily mutters at the steering wheel, and Chris laughs at that.

"Ah, ah, be careful of what you wish for,” Chris says, “And as your navigator, I insist." Chris fiddles with Zach's phone. There is a map, but in plain mathematics speak, he's a pure map reader, not an applied one, and it takes furious stares and adjustments before he can configure where they were, moreso, where he wanted them to go. Truthfully, he hasn't figured out that part yet.

He's suddenly distracted by scrolling words that appear on the bar, and Chris is frozen for a fraction of a second. He taps along, like nothing happened, but he's aware. There was a message from Miles. It says  _I miss you too_ , and  _please come home_. It sounds like Chris' worst nightmare come to life, but it's right there, a message innocently waiting to be opened. He hovers his thumb, he can feel himself shaking.

"Pine, you're aware we can't circle Flagstaff all day, even though I must say," Zach grins and slips into his Tom Wingfield accent, "that must have been the finest Chilaquiles I have the honor to have tasted."

"As I live and breathe," Chris says, breathless, and presses.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Beatrice is the witty, sharp, and cynical heroine from William Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing. More credits for this chapter are found [here](http://0ldlace.tumblr.com/post/121991275939/ride-chapter-eleven-authors-notes-say).
> 
> My utmost thanks to [semper-ama](http://archiveofourown.org/users/semperama/works), superfast beta esq. You're the best!


End file.
